


Disaster Artist: Holiday Style

by Jaydeun



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Baking, Christmas, Crowley is a disaster, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Holiday, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Angst, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Texting, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:14:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: Aziraphale leaves Crowley alone for a girl date with Anathema in the city. He promises not to check his phone. Crowley promises to get into the holiday spirit.A story told in Crowley's panicked text messages.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 175





	Disaster Artist: Holiday Style

Disaster Artist: Holiday style

“You’ll be calling me every five minutes, you know you will,” Crowley had drawled from the sofa. Aziraphale merely straightened his bow tie and rechecked the bag of needful items he planned to take to London. He’d agreed to meet Anathema at 8am sharp, both of them heading to London for a little pre-holiday shopping (and to check in on the book shop, of course).

It might be true that, strictly speaking, he hadn’t left Crowley alone in the cottage since they moved in. Not that he didn’t trust him to stay out of trouble (he absolutely didn’t trust him to stay out of trouble); it was just so strange to think of Crowley all alone in the largely quiet and unpeopled countryside. He looked perfectly content, splayed as he was on his belly and scrolling through his phone over the edge of the sofa. Then again—

“You’re certain you don’t want to join us? We could go through Mayfair. Pick up a lovely bottle of red at the shop you’re so fond of—”

“Got a whole case in the back and you know it,” Crowley slithered up, his upper body hovering above the cushions in a way no human could manage. “You worried I’ll set the place on fire, angel?

He managed to get a great deal of teasing into that single brow arch. Aziraphale huffed quietly to himself.

“Well, it won’t be my fault if you get bored, dearest.”

“Won’t get bored. Got to decorate, don’t I?” Crowley waived a drowsy hand in the direction of a bare spruce tree. Aziraphale felt a flush of surprised fondness; he thought Crowley had been joking when he suggested it.

“You really will?”

“Promised I would get into the holiday spirit, didn’t I? Now go on. She’ll start honking Dick Turpin’s ugly little horn in a minute.”

“Yes, yes. If you want breakfast, there’s—”

“Angel,” Crowley slid onto the floor and then climbed to his feet. “You are stalling,” he said pressing a chaste kiss on Aziraphale’s brow and causing him to flush pink all over again.

“Ahem. Well.” He gave Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “If you need me—”

“Don’t start that. Don’t even answer your phone. It’s girl’s day out, innit?”

On cue, Anathema started blaring the horn. And Aziraphale hurried out to meet her.

***

It wasn’t a girl’s day, per se. It was a truly marvelous one, however. They managed to get manicures first thing. He’d been sitting under the drying lamp when he first noticed the buzzing.

“That’s your phone, isn’t it?” Anathema asked, looking over her own very purple fingernails.

“Oh. It might be,” Aziraphale couldn’t distinguish the ring from anyone else’s. He only carried it because Crowley insisted; he’d only actually used it twice, however, and had never once charged it (*it hadn’t occurred to him this was necessary, so of course, it hadn’t been).

“Sounds like text messages. You want me to check?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale turned his wrinkled nose into a genuine smile. Crowley was testing him, no doubt. Well. He’d be up to the challenge.

He remained up to the challenge all through their shopping excursion; _buzz buzz buzz._ And during their brief tour of the holiday fair near Soho, where Aziraphale found a rather perfect knit cap with little devil horns on top for Crowley; _buzz buzz._ And back at the bookshop, where everything remained tickety boo; _buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…buzzzzzz._

“Goodness, it sounds like Beelzebub in there,” Aziraphale said, peering into his jacket’s inner pocket. Anathema turned onto the M25.

“Maybe it’s urgent?” She asked, fighting for a spot in traffic and cursing Crowley under the breath. “ _Why_ did he do this to the motorway?”

“Kicks, as I understand it, dear.” _Buzz Buzz. Buzz._ Maybe he ought to check it after all? It did seem a bit much. But that’s just how Crowley liked to do things; the way they were slogging through congestion only proved it. Crowley _was_ a bit much. All the much. Exactly as much as Aziraphale had always wanted. He smiled and patted his coat pocket smugly. He wouldn’t take a look until they were nearly in Oxfordshire.

By then, the phone had gone quiet. Too quiet? Maybe?

“I have to stop for petrol,” Anathema announced, pulling in to a station. She stepped out to pump, and Aziraphale fished out the phone, sleek and shiny, and with 47 messages.

“Oh. Dear.”

***

**8:45am**

Crowley: Hey angel, did you know that toast can catch on fire? I didn’t.

**8:50am**

Crowley: It really, really catches on fire. I mean, I just wanted to melt the butter. You know, put a couple pats on top, sit it on the toaster and turn it on. Probably should not have showered while trying that. PS--we are out of shower gel.

**9:25am**

Crowley: Do you mind smoke? I mean the smell. I opened the windows and such. But—well. Demon. I can’t miracle away smoke, can I? If you don’t like it, maybe you could snap it into the ether when you get here?

**10:31am**

Crowley: Okay never mind. Having all the windows opened worked out. Good thing I disabled the smoke detectors or we’d be explaining this to the neighbors. Or altering memories. Again.

**11:13am**

Crowley: I can’t get the windows closed.

**11:14am**

Crowley: I can’t get the windows closed.

**11:15am**

Crowley: Where the fuck are you, angel it’s FREEZING in here.

**11:30am**

Crowley: WHAT DID YOU DO, MIRACLE THE WINDOWS? THEY WON’T DO ANYTHING I TELL THEM TO.

**11:34am**

Crowley: Nevermind. Shouting worked.

**12:40pm**

Crowley: It’s still bloody cold in here.

**1:11pm**

Crowley: Hey angel. So let’s assume I wanted to turn the kitchen stove on. And let’s say I hadn’t actually done that before, and assumed a miracle would do the trick… Did you like that stove?

**2:55pm**

Crowley: We probably need more kitchen towels. And spoons. And bowls. And whatever those electric beater things are. I think I may have shouted them out of existence. You should see the cake, though.

**3:26pm**

Crowley: Scratch that, you should not see the cake.

**4:31pm**

Crowley: Cookies are more the Christmas thing, anyway.

**4:55pm**

Crowley: Fuck.

**4:56pm**

Crowley: Fuck.

**4:57pm**

Crowley: Fuck.

**5:11pm**

Crowley: That’s it. I’m drinking. Yes, the good stuff. Yes, I found it behind the freezer in the basement you cheeky bastard.

**6:05pm**

Crowley: Right. Where was I? Where are you, is more the thing. The point. I mean—where are you actually? Still with book grls? Grl/. GIRL. Fuck you Siri.

Crowley: I invented Siri, you know that, right? Angel. Are you ignoreing me?

Crowley: IGNORGIN

Crowley: dhfjlwfwulirg

**6:20pm**

Crowley: You know that this day needs? Fire. THAT I can do.

**6:23pm**

Crowley: Wood. You need wood, though, don’t you? I’ll be back.

**6:30pm**

Crowley: DAMAGE! Fuckadnfhgrfuck klioh dammittohell

Crowley: Fuck wood and door thingies—jambs—whatthefuck is it for anyhow

**6:35pm**

Crowley: I think I killed myself

Crowley: DRINK

**6:38pm**

Crowley: Angel?

Crowley: Angel?

Crowley: ANGEL

**6:45pm**

Crowley: Ooh we have a tree. Did you know? It’s behind the sofa.

**6:48pm**

Crowley: There’s an angel, angel. In a box. If it’s Gabriel can I set it on fire?

**6:50pm**

Crowley: I hope it was Gabriel.

**6:55pm**

Crowley: Ok, so what if we rewrote jingle bells? Like—no, hear me out. Right. So there is Beelzebub. It’ssss the same. Same. Lemme shoe you. SHOW. Show you. Lol. I invented LOL.

**6:58pm**

Crowley: Beelzebub, Beelzebub, BeelzeGabriel! Oh what gits, they are the pits, I hope they rot in HELL!

Crowley: See?

Crowley: Angel?

**7:00pm**

Crowley: I think I set the rug on fire a little. Its fine.

Crowley: I’m fine.

**7:15pm**

Crowley: I AM NOT FINE

Crowley: WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING MY TEXTS

Crowley: Are you mad?

**7:25pm**

Crowley: About the toast?

**7:28pm**

Crowley: brb

***

“Crowley! Crowley?” Aziraphale leapt from the car almost before it stopped rolling and scampered up their flagstone walk with surprising speed. The last text had come almost twenty minutes ago, despite Aziraphale’s attempts to rouse a response.

The lights were all on—upstairs and down—and at least two windows were still open. Aziraphale snapped the door open and rushed through the front hall and into the joint living/dining/kitchen space. A quick glance told him it had not been the best of days for a beleaguered demon home alone. The toaster had gone a peculiarly shade of black., flour dusted most surfaces and a scattering of broken crockery, and the kitchen stove was… missing… for some reason. But at least the worst of Aziraphale’s fears could be put to rest. A very passed out Crowley lay under the (still undecorated) tree next to an empty whiskey bottle (or 2) and the ashy remains of a tree top angel that looked a little too like Gabriel, after all. He had managed to light a fire in the hearth, but he’d also managed to tear the knee of his jeans and, judging from the swollen bruise, bang himself up while too drunk to mend himself. On the coffee table, however, were gingerbread cookies. Half shaped like snakes, half like a pair of angel wings. Aziraphale cupped one hand over his mouth to suppress a hiccup of tearful delight. Then he knelt next to Crowley and stroked his hair affectionately.

“Wazzit? Oh _angel_ , I’ve had the _worst fucking day_ ,” Crowley groaned, tucking his face right into Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“Shhh, dear, it’s all right,” Aziraphale whispered, silently putting the house to rights, shutting the windows, and un-staining the rugs. He wasn’t sure how to miracle a stove. They would have to sort that out later. He traced Crowely’s knee with one hand, patching up person and trousers, and then rested it upon the back of Crowley’s neck where he still nestled against him.

“The cookies look marvelous, my dear,” Aziraphale hummed, aware that a tear of joy had just escaped to roll down his cheek. “Would you like to join me?”

“Gotta—sober—oh fuck, I made a _mess_ —”

“All fixed, all fixed,” Aziraphale helped Crowley to his knees, then to the waiting cushions of the loveseat. Crowley shivered himself clear-headed and looked at him, pink to the ears and shame-faced.

“I, uh, didn’t do all that well by myself.”

“Well. There’s a lot to get you into trouble around here,” Aziraphale teased gently. He handed Crowley a gingerbread cookie. “Toasters are really quite evil.”

“Malicious evil,” Crowley agreed. “Next level. And stoves. Hastur-evil.”

“Where _is_ the stove?”

“Bermuda. I think.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale breathed a sigh of deep relief and settled onto the cushions. Crowley did the same, but his eyes caught sight of the bare tree.

“Ah, shit. I meant to do that—shall I?” He held his hand up to snap, but Aziraphale caught his fingers.

“No, love. Let’s do it together. _Tomorrow_.”

“Tomorrow.” Crowley lay back again, this time against Aziraphale’s warm, soft side. Aziraphale wrapped his free arm gently around Crowley’s ribs and tugged him close.

“I’m afraid I was very naughty in not answering your texts, my dear. Will you forgive me?”

“Only if you promise never to leave me ever again.”

Aziraphale kissed his forehead.

“Not ever, dear boy. Not ever.”


End file.
